


Fruity Little Problem

by chocoholic2



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anxiety, Baking, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Magical Realism, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 15:30:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16621640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocoholic2/pseuds/chocoholic2
Summary: Bitty's magical powers are pretty limited, limited in fact to spontaneous baked goods when he’s feeling excited, stressed, or even, yes, aroused. Basically any strong feeling results in a pie or cookies or whatever, depending on the availability of ingredients, in less time than it takes to heat up some Easy Mac. It isn’t the most useful superpower, but he can’t complain.But he's not the only magical being in the Haus.





	Fruity Little Problem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZepysGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZepysGirl/gifts).



> I signed up for Fandom Trump Hates to help get over my writer's block (and also because fuck Trump), but it didn't really help... Somehow, I wrote this anyway.
> 
> Thank you to ZepysGirl for your lovely prompts. I don't think I did it justice, but it was an honor to write this for you. Thanks for being a thought partner throughout this process. <3

Eric’s not sure when he realized the bedtime stories were real. Sure, his mother read him the usual fictional fairy tales – _Cinderella_ , _Beauty and the Beast_ , _Jack and the Beanstalk_ – but then there were the others. There was the one about his great-grandmother and the fairies. The one where Aunt Judy turned the lake into jam. His favorite is the one where a peach tree grew inside his mama’s first apartment after her first date with his papa. He told her peach pie was his favorite, and the next morning, there it was, sticking out of the living room floor, already covered in ripe fruit even though it was mid-November.

 

That one always makes his heart warm, even though he’s heard it a million times. Mama tells him the story every time she makes peach pie.

 

He’s listened to the stories, enthralled by the sensory details: the bright scents of summer stone fruit, the beautiful pang in your chest when the late afternoon light hits at _just_ the right angle, the heady taste of warm night air. It all seemed too real to be brushed off as just stories told to entertain children who didn’t know better.

 

By the time he was ten, Eric knew his mama was pretending to be Santa Claus and the tooth fairy. And he also knew that she was a Summer Witch.

 

They never talked about it with anyone outside the family. They barely even talked about it when Coach was in the room. But when it was just him and his mother (and sometimes his Moomaw), they’d discuss whether he would end up with the gift as well. The magic was in his blood, after all, but it didn’t always manifest in male children. But boy, did he want it with his whole being. His cousin Anna could already produce fireflies from the tips of her fingers. Eric wanted to do that, too. But more than that, he wanted to be magical just like his mama. After all, it brought her true love. And maybe it would bring true love to Eric as well.

 

☆☆☆

 

On his 16th birthday, Eric made an apple pie appear out of thin air after Luke Thomas took his shirt off in P.E. The second pie appeared four days later when his chemistry partner, Jackson, wore the most _amazing_ body spray to school, leaving Eric hot and bothered and suddenly covering the bulge in his lap with a still-warm pie.

 

He told his mother as soon as he got home (about the pies. Not the... other stuff. He planned to keep some of the trickier details to himself). His mama was so happy that she cried, wrapping her arms around his shoulder and immediately calling his entire extended family. He was a Summer Witch too!

 

His powers are pretty limited, limited in fact to spontaneous baked goods when he’s feeling excited, stressed, or even, yes, aroused. Basically any strong feeling results in a pie or cookies or whatever, depending on the availability of ingredients. Conjuring things out of thin air wipes him out pretty good, but if he stands in a well-stocked kitchen and focuses on going to college, all of the eager, nervous energy manifests in a flaky-crusted homemade pie in less time than it takes to heat up some Easy Mac. It isn’t the most useful superpower, but he can’t complain. He remembers a story about great-great aunt who fell asleep any time the temperature dropped below 70 degrees and counts himself lucky.

 

☆☆☆

 

Eric takes a deep breath and steps over the threshold into the Faber Memorial Rink locker room. The past couple days have been a whirlwind of moving in, excitement, tears, and of course, pies. He charmed his way into the student kitchens less than two hours after arriving on campus, because he knew it was going to be too much to rely on magic alone. Besides, as convenient (or inconvenient) as the appearance of a pie could be, they never tasted as good as they did when Eric at least had a chance to make the dough from scratch. And he _definitely_ wants to impress his new teammates. His high school team loved his pies. They were practically an honorary teammate. So it seems only logical that his new team will enjoy them too.

 

The thing is, though… it's a disaster. Several large boys on the team immediately grab the pies, and by the time they’re finished, no one even considers eating them. They would have kept going too, if the coaches hadn’t walked in with the grumpiest, scariest person Eric’s ever seen in his whole life. This boy’s wolf-like, piercing blue eyes send a chill directly into his soul. Like, what the hell?

 

The coaches introduce him as the captain, Jack Zimmermann. Eric overhears Wicks, one of the other freshman, whispering to someone that he used to be a famous NHL prospect. Which is fine, Eric thinks, just so long as Jack Zimmermann keeps his junk out of Eric’s pies.

 

They go over ground rules, the schedule, and the importance of being on time to morning practice.

 

“You boys are lucky,” Coach Murray barks. “We’ve given you an extra half hour this year to sleep in, which means there are no excuses for being late. Anyone late to morning practice will get to spend practice skating suicide drills. Is that clear?”

 

“Yes, sir,” the team intones. Coaches Hall and Murray nod approvingly.

 

Murray checks his clipboard. “Now onto nutrition.” Jack Zimmermann perks up at that. Eric looks guiltily at the forlorn pecan crumbles littering the floor. He can't catch a break today.

 

☆☆☆

 

The first couple weeks fly by, but also feel like the longest years of Eric’s life. On one hand, he can’t believe he’s been living at Samwell less than a month and already managed to make so many ‘swawesome friends. (He also can’t believe he ever lived without having the word ‘swawesome in his vocabulary.)

 

At the same time, the days are _so long_. Eric’s never felt as physically or emotionally exhausted as he has juggling morning practices with afternoon weight room sessions with the first week of classes with his coaches _constantly_ yelling at him.

 

But the yelling isn’t even the worst of it. Or at least _their_ yelling isn’t the worst of it. The worst is Jack. It’s like Eric is the bane of his entire existence, and he made sure _everyone_ knew.

 

In their second week of practice, Eric bungled a pass when Holster came directly at him. He fell over in shock and fear, his vision blacking out for a hot second as he hit the ice on blue line. Jack skated over immediately, and Eric looked up to face him. He expected Jack to reach down, give him a hand up. Instead, he was met with a glare sharp enough to slice his head off.

 

Something had snapped. Jack never looked more wolfish. His eyes were always a penetrating blue, but this time there was a merciless darkness behind them, and even his teeth looked sharper.

 

“This isn’t a JOKE. Either get with the program or QUIT.” The words came out in a rabid bark, and Eric couldn’t help but flinch away. Right when it seemed like Jack might actually bite his head off, he turned on his heel and stalked away. He skated right off the ice, and didn’t come back for the rest of practice.

 

No one seemed to notice that a lemon meringue pie and a dozen cookies had popped up in the penalty box.

 

“Yo, Bitty, Jack just gets real bitchy near the end of every preseason,” Shitty tried to reassure him later when they were back in the locker room. It wasn’t much help, Bitty thought, remembering the ferocious look in Jack’s eyes.

 

It happened again the practice after that. Eric actually thought for a moment that Jack would kill him.

 

Eric’s saving grace was that Shitty had given him access to the Haus kitchen, since the stress of everything – including worrying about quitting the team and losing his scholarship – had pies popping up left and right. Now at least, he can stress-bake all hours of the night and not drain any of his already depleted energy with out-of-nowhere desserts.

 

☆☆☆

 

“Fuck yeah, Bits!” Shitty screams, pulling him into a celly after scoring on Eric’s first ever assist. Soon, all the boys still on the ice are surrounding him, squeezing him tight.

 

The only two people who don’t congratulate him are Jack and Johnson. Jack isn’t a surprise. Shitty had been right that he’s less angry and irritable now that the season has started, but it’s not like normal Jack is a bucket of sunshine.

 

Johnson, on the other hand, finally skates over to him at the intermission. “Popped your goal cherry with a cherry,” he says cryptically. Eric gapes as he then reaches into his pants and pulls out a cherry pie. “It was sitting inside the net, but I figured you didn’t want to leave it on the ice while it was still warm.”

 

“Um, thanks.” Eric takes the pie awkwardly and follows behind Johnson as he waddles in his pads back to the locker room. Jack gapes at them as they walk past, raising a skeptical eyebrow at the pie.

 

He thought it couldn’t get worse until he’s woken up one Sunday by a loud banging on his dorm room door.

 

“Bittle. Are you awake?”

 

“Mmerghhh.” He rolls over and pulls the comforter tighter around his head.

 

The banging doesn’t stop. It’s still dark outside. “Wake up, Bittle. I mean it. Get your ass out of bed.”

 

The order is followed by a continuous, throbbing drumbeat that burrows directly into Bittle’s temples.

 

“Alright, alright. I’m coming!” he groans, rolling off the mattress with the blankets and wrapping them around himself like a parka.

 

He cracks open the door and peers outside. Jack Zimmermann is there, harshly lit by the dorm hallway fluorescents. He doesn’t look tired, the bastard.

 

“Can I help you?” Eric grunts.

 

Jack eyes him up and down, causing Eric to wrap himself tighter in the green striped comforter. “Get dressed. We’re heading to the rink.”

 

It takes Eric’s brain a second to process the sentence. “The rink?”

 

“Yes. We’re going to work on checking.” It’s far too early to deal with Jack Zimmermann’s dumb accent. Was he even speaking English at this point?

 

“Now?” Eric feels like he was going to cry, he’s so tired. “What time is it?”

 

Jack glances at his phone. “It’s 4:15.”

 

Eric stares at him. “Are you insane?” He’s about to slam the door in Jack’s face – a decision he will surely regret in the light of day – when Jack stops him. He looks livid.

 

But a second later, the red behind his eyes dissipates. He holds open the door and steps inside.

 

“Put on some clothes, grab your gear, and let’s go,” Jack admonishes. “You want to get better at checking, right? You want to stay on the team?” He isn’t actually yelling at him for once. In fact, he sounds firm, but actually earnest. “This is the only free time I could get on the rink, so we’re going to have to make the best of it, eh?”

 

For a moment, Eric just looks at him, dumbfounded. Then he turns to his closet and starts pulling on some pants. “I can’t believe this,” he mumbles to himself.

 

They walk together in the brisk, dark morning. The campus is practically deserted, the usual for a Sunday morning. The street lamps are still lit, the stars still sprinkled about the sky. The one good thing about being only half awake is that in the walk feels quick in his half-speed brain.

 

Jack unlocks the doors with a large keyring.

 

“Captain’s perks?” Eric asks, waiting as Jack jiggles the lock.

 

“Sort of.” Eric can see a smirk on his lips in the lights coming from above the door. “I borrowed the spare set after practice. As long as I bring them back before anyone notices…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but there’s a slight glint in his eyes.

 

“Huh, never took you for a rule breaker,” Eric says, transitioning into a loud yawn.

 

“It’s not exactly a rule that I _can’t_ use them. I’m just borrowing them.”  
  
“Better to beg for forgiveness, or something like that.”

 

Eric can’t be sure, but it seems like Jack laughs under his breath. It annoys him to no end that this is the happiest he’s ever seen Jack Zimmermann: torturing Eric by dragging him out of bed and halfway across campus in the dark to ram him into the boards for an indeterminate amount of time.

 

Once the door is unlocked, Jack leads them down a set of hallways Eric’s never seen before and in through the back door of the locker room. It’s a little awkward putting on his full pads and uniform while Jack just stands there and waits, but he just ignores the feeling – and the single oatmeal raisin stress cookie that pops up in his locker – and gets dressed as quickly as possible. They head out to the ice and lace up their skates side by side on the bench.

 

“Ughhhh.” Leaning over to tie his laces is close enough to lying down that Eric considers closing his eyes for a second and getting in a micro-nap.

 

“Let’s go, Bittle,” shouts Jack. “Up and at ‘em.”

 

Eric groans again. He forces himself upright, dragging his limbs up and over the boards onto the ice. Jack, per usual, does it with effortless grace and athleticism that makes Eric both jealous and furious. And kinda warm in the cheeks…

 

“It’s so early I’m gonna vomit,” Eric complains, gliding forward in a few tentative warmup strides.

 

Jack rolls his eyes, but smiles as he chirps, “You’ve never seen the sun rise from a rink, eh? Thought you were a figuring skating champion.”

 

“I am and I _have, Captain_.”

 

They do a few laps, trading chirps that echo oddly in the empty arena. The faint pre-dawn light filters through the tall windows of Faber, casting long shadows across the ice. It would have been tranquil, beautiful even, if 200 pounds of muscle hadn’t come bolting across the ice, ramming right into Eric’s side.

 

“Stop, stop! STOP!” he cries out. His knees crumple beneath him, and his chest aches like it’s been plunged into icy water. Tears well up in the corners of his eyes, threatening to fall at any second. A faint burning smell hits his nose. Shit. That means there's a pie or something somewhere in the vicinity. He hopes Jack didn’t notice, because honestly things are sucky enough as it is.

 

“Geez… are you—” Jack trails off, his eyes wilder than they had been a second ago.

 

Eric pulls off his helmet, hoping it would help him breathe a bit better. After a few ragged breaths, he pushes himself to his feet. He glances up and sees a blackened pie three rows back. Jack probably won’t notice it way up there. Eric whimpers.

 

“Seriously, Bittle.” Carefully, Jack edges closer to Eric, stopping arm’s distance away, but not touching. “You can see the ice well, you got good hands…You’re a great skater—”

 

Was he actually complimenting him? That’s…different. He waits for the “but.”

 

“—but you’ve got this stupid mental block about getting hit,” Jack continues. "If that’s the only thing holding you back we’re going to get you over it.”

 

Eric looks up and meets Jack’s eyes. The wild look has dissipated, but that doesn’t make the shock of bright blue any less arresting. “Just trust me, okay?”

 

For the first time, Eric can almost see why anyone would vote this boy captain. Even though he’s exhausted, [overwhelmed/panicked/freaking out], and mostly not succeeding at keeping tears from falling down his cheeks, he feels like just maybe he can trust Jack to have his bacj after all.

 

Although, it might also just be early morning Stockholm Syndrome. But as long as Jack isn’t screaming at him, well, it’s progress.

 

☆☆☆

 

Family weekend couldn’t have come soon enough. This is the longest Eric has ever been apart from his family coven. He can’t be sure, but it sometimes feels like it’s affecting his powers. The pies _had_ seemed more erratic lately…

  
Whether there’s a magical explanation, or it’s simply the normal good feeling of having your mama nearby, Eric feels more in control and at ease than he’s felt in weeks. He’s been looking forward to showing his mother all of the places and things they’ve discussed on the phone – from the gorgeous trees along the river to the lovable filth nest that is the Haus.

 

When it’s time for him to head to Faber for the Yale Game, he leaves her at Annie’s, his new favorite cafe, with a caramel latte and a Janet Evanovich novel, hoping that she’ll be okay all by her lonesome.

 

But he doesn't have much time for worrying. When he gets to the rink, the boys are already in fine form, sending him off on a “very important” jockey run to the old equipment room in the bowels of the building (he wasn’t sure if they referred to it as that because it was so deep inside or because of the smell).

 

He’s on his way back, chitchatting with himself, when he hears it.

 

A terrifying snarl.

 

Eric stops in his tracks.

 

He hears it again: a low growl coming from the door leading out to the loading dock. It definitely sounds like a wild animal, too deep and too much of a snarl to be just a dog. Or if it _is_ a dog, it’s probably 150 pound at least. Maybe it was a bear. Were there _bears_ at Samwell? Or mountain lions?

 

Before Eric can move, the noises change from growls to a pained whine, and then a few soft whimpers before stopping completely.

 

He’s about to turn and run, when he hears a very, very different sound.

 

“ _Ca va. Ouais. Ca va._ _Euh, un peu. … Non, non, non!”_

 

Was that… French? Was there someone out there?

 

Eric tiptoes towards the door, not knowing what to expect. If the wounded animal is still out there, then maybe French-speaking person will know how to help it. Or maybe the French person was hurt by the animal!

 

Either way, Eric can't let himself stand by. He opens the door to the outside and sees… Jack?

 

Jack is sitting on the loading dock, holding his phone to his ear in a trembling hand. For some reason, his shoes are a few feet away on the ground and his socks have enormous holes in the toes. He’s speaking in rapid, worried French, clearly finishing up an intense conversation.

 

After he says goodbye and ends the call, he drops his head into his hands. “Shit.”

 

There isn’t a dog, bear, or mountain lion in sight.

 

After a moment, Eric clears his throat. “Are you okay?”  
  
Jack startles and sits up abruptly. “Bittle.”

 

Eric can’t help himself. He immediately apologizes for interrupting Jack, trying to explain all about the jocks, and the old equipment room, and the open door to the loading dock, and the strange animal sounds.

 

“You could hear?” Jack interrupts. He looks _scared_.  

  
“I mean, I didn’t _understand_ ,” Eric insists, waving apologetically. “But you seemed just seemed kinda stressed, so. I just wanted to check.” After a pause, he adds, “Um, I also heard a wild animal noise, so I was afraid something happened to it or someone out here.”

 

Jack’s eyes widen. “I haven’t seen anything.”

 

“Oh. Well, okay.” Eric’s positive he heard something. “Good then.”

 

Tentatively, he takes a few steps towards Jack. Then a few more. When Jack doesn’t say anything, he walks all the way over and sits next to him. Jack looks down at the jock straps in his hand and chirps him.

 

Eric blushes bright red, folding over the top of the cardboard box, but either way, it seems to help Jack relax. At least a tiny bit.

  
“Pre-game jitters?” Eric asks gently.

 

Jack clenches his jaw. “No. Well, something like that.” He looks down at his holey socks and sighs.

 

Before he can stop himself, Eric’s mouth starts running, the words flowing out of him like a magic pie. “I always got worked up before competitions, especially when I knew my dad was going to be there. Every time I saw him during warm-ups, I’d flub my jumps.” Jack doesn't meet his eye, but Eric keeps going, ignoring Jack's small flinch when he mentions his dad. He talks and talks until he has to stop to take a breath. When he does, Jack sighs and straightens his back.

 

“Thanks, Bittle.” He looks so… _determined_ , like he’s ready for whatever was about to come next, even if it’s just remembering how to walk.

 

“You kidding?” Eric says as Jack stood up and went to pick up his shoes. “I should be thanking you for the checking clinics.” And Eric’s surprised to realize that he means it. They’d done three of them now, and even though it’s a brutal, miserable experience every time, he _is_ improving.

 

“Just promise me you won’t crumple up into a ball at center ice tonight and we’re even,” Jack replies, retying his shoelaces and walking over to Eric, his fist extended for a fist bump. Eric responds in kind, chattering along behind Jack as they return to the dressing room.

 

☆☆☆

 

 

When Eric’s mom meet him after the game – after his game-winning goal!! – she’s holding two pies, one in each hand. Yet she still manages to wrap her arms around him in a big hug.

 

“I’m so proud of you sweetheart!” she exclaims, her voice slightly hoarse from what must have been a lot of yelling. “And you should’ve seen me in the stands _all emotional_. Someone stopped cheering to ask me if I was okay!” She laughs at the memory, a warm, warbling sound that Eric might have been embarrassed by if he weren’t still in shock.

 

But when his mom’s millionth attempt to take a photo of him this weekend is interrupted by _Bad Bob Zimmermann_ , Eric gives up any hope that his mom us going to keep her cool.

 

As Jack introduces Eric and his mama to his dad, Eric hears two soft thumps behind him. A quick glance at the floor reveals two ripe peaches rolling away from his mother’s feet -- a family trait that couldn’t have picked a worse time to pop up. Thankfully, neither Zimmermann notices (and it doesn’t seem like Mama does either, based on her humiliating goo-goo eyes on Jack’s dad).

 

As the two parents chat away – Bad Bob even _complimented_ him; what is life??? – Eric can’t help but look over at Jack.

 

Something is off. Jack's fists are clenched against his sides, and his eyes are wide, something almost dangerous there. He doesn’t look at any of them. Eric tries to get his attention, or at least get his mother to stop talking, when Jack excuses himself abruptly. Mr. Zimmermann ignores this, as if it’s normal behavior for his son, and continues to exchange pleasant small talk with Eric’s mom. But Eric can’t shake the strange joltof fear he gets from meeting Jack’s eyes in that moment.

 

Later that evening, after showering, changing, and pawning off the two pies and now basket of peaches from his mother to an unfazed Johnson, Eric spots Jack trying to slip unnoticed out of Faber.

 

He races after him, hoping his mother will be okay waiting a few extra minutes. He gets within earshot right at the exit door. “Hey, Jack! Wait up!” Jack doesn’t turn to face him, but he does stop. The building entrance is dark, with one of the streetlamps out completely and the other flickering ominously.

 

“I’m so glad I caught you!” Eric says, almost sheepishly now. “Cause um. I just wanted to say good game, and thank...” He wants to say that he would never have been able to make the game-winning shot without Jack’s help, without his checking clinics. He wants to apologize for his embarrassing mother and for the way he made a fool of himself in front of Jack’s dad. He wants to tell Jack how impressed he is that after witnessing him in such a vulnerable moment that afternoon on the loading deck, that he was able to play as well as he did under pressure.

 

He doesn’t get to say any of that.

 

In the darkness, Jack’s figure and profile seem bigger somehow, his shoulders appearing broader, his stature seeming taller in the strange lighting. Eric's fear returns, but it’s soon displaced by hurt feelings.

 

“Bittle,” Jack says curtly, just loud enough that Eric can hear him. “It was a lucky shot.”

 

It feels like a punch to the gut. He’s unable to move as Jack walks away, hopping into the passenger seat of a car waiting in the parking lot. It takes Eric another full minute before he can trace Jack’s steps down the steps and into his mother’s own rental car. She doesn’t say anything about the burnt cookies resting on the dashboard.

 

~~~~~~~~~~

 

Life goes on though, and if Jack hits him a little bit harder in checking clinics after that, Eric doesn’t mention it.

 

After midterms -- because there’s no real right time to do it, but there’s definitely a wrong time -- Eric gathers every ounce of courage he has and comes out to Shitty. Shitty takes Eric being gay so well, he almost considers telling him that he’s a Summer Witch as well, but he decides to hold off. Two major secrets in one day is more than Eric’s racing heart can handle.

 

Even though Eric hasn’t told anyone about his magical abilities, he has a strange inkling that Johnson already knows. “No offense,” Johnson says one Sunday afternoon, cutting into one of two _seemingly_ identical apple pies, “but I like the pies you make better than the ones you _make_ , you know, little bro?” ‘

 

Before Eric can string together enough words for a response, Johnson is already finished with his first slice and going in for a second

 

☆☆☆

 

Finals are a nightmare, and all Eric really has to show for it are some passing if noteworthy grades and a finely honed skill of procrasti-baking.

 

He’s excited to go home for the holidays and show off his new recipes for the Bittle/Phelps Christmas extravaganza. There are cookie exchanges and church bake sales to prepare for, plus the inevitable carolers to feed. His mama always like to joke that he’s the oddest Summer Witch she ever knew – with a talent best suited for winter time. He almost tells her that his summer soul feels the most comfortable in winter, even if his fingers, toes, face, ears, and general wellbeing disagree. But it’s one of the reason he always felt drawn to figure skating and then hockey – something about the ice calls to him.

 

He doesn’t end up saying any of this either, covering up his thoughts with one of their familiar rants about the travesty of store-bought frosting and fake vanilla extract.

 

When January rolls around, Eric’s as desperate to go back to school as he’d been to come home. He misses his friends, misses the team. He even kinda misses checking clinics, though he’d never admit it. He _doesn’t_ miss homework, but he’s willing to tolerate it in exchange for some dining hall chicken tenders.

 

When he arrives back on campus, he drops by the Haus first thing after dropping off his bags in his dorm room. He’s immediately placed in a headlock by Holster, handed a beer by Shitty, and halfway through a game of flip cup before he has a chance to take a breath and remember just how _happy_ this place makes him.

 

“Whoa! Bitty, did you bake cupcakes?” Ransom calls from the kitchen, whooping excitedly.

 

Eric didn’t _bake_ them per se, but he shrugs happily and hands them out to the dozen or so people who’ve gathered in the Haus, following behind Shitty as if his dessert is the chaser for Shitty’s PBR.  

 

Around 9 p.m., Jack arrives with his duffel, and he’s immediately teased for how strong his accent has gotten over the break. Eric doesn’t tease him, but hands him a cupcake. “Welcome back, Jack,” he says with a wide grin that betrays his tipsiness. Jack doesn’t smile, and passes off the cupcake to Holster as he heads upstairs. Eric rolls his eyes. Whatever.

 

☆☆☆

 

The next day, Eric meets Lardo, and it feels like a missing piece falls into place for the Samwell Men’s Hockey team. Even the other freshmen who didn’t know better are finding a groove that wasn’t there during fall semester.

 

Lardo is as fun as she is tiny, and Eric gets why Shitty likes her so much (maybe _likes her_ likes her. It’s hard to tell with them). But the weirdest thing is how she gets along with Jack. Part of Eric wants to probe her for her secret, because he’s been having a _terrible_ time getting along with Jack lately.

 

Checking clinics are worse than ever, with Jack barely speaking to him unless it’s to correct or criticize. It’s as if Jack is still mad at him for the Yale game.

 

It all comes to a headway when Coach Murray and Coach Hall put them on the first line together. Any pride or excitement Eric gets from starting is squashed out of him with one spine-chilling look from Jack. He even complains to the coaches _right in front of him_. Eric would be hurt if he weren’t so _pissed off_. Just because Jack’s a hockey prodigy with a famous father doesn’t mean he gets to treat Eric like crap. He _earned_ his way onto the team and onto the first line.

 

Eric smells burnt sugar, knowing that some baked good or another has popped up, but he ignores it. He ignores the heat on his face from the glare in Jack’s eyes. Whatever happens, he refuses to let this affect his gameplay. He hasn’t been struggling through miserable mornings being smashed into the boards to let Jack get the best of him.

 

And the thing is, they _are_ good out there together. Eric’s speed compliments Jack’s skill in a way that no other duo on the team can match, not even Ransom and Holster, who seem to share a brain sometimes. Eric can pass the puck and Jack will _be there_. Jack will deke and Eric will already be in the gap, ready to capitalize. Their power play is unreal.

 

Not that Jack cares. After the game, Jack doesn’t glare at him, but neither does he acknowledge that they played well. And so what if Eric craves a little bit of positive feedback once in a while? Sue him.

 

☆☆☆

 

Eventually though, Eric stops caring that Jack isn’t expressly acknowledging their teamwork on the ice. He stops caring about any of it, because Jack is _crushing_ the competition. It’s impossible to be mad at someone with five goals off of his five assists in one week alone. The season is wrapping up, and Eric is already daydreaming about the playoffs. In his favorite daydream, Eric scores the game-winner in the final game and instead of getting mad, Jack lifts him up in an epic celly and tells him that he always knew Eric could do it, and they never would have made it this far without him on his line.

 

Okay, maybe Eric isn’t as over it as he thinks. But for the first time all season, Jack is basically friendly with him, as much as he’s capable of, anyway. He actually laughs at some of Eric’s jokes and accepts baked goods somewhere between 10-20% of the time.

 

In their final game of the regular season, Jack scores an unbelievable hat trick, and Eric is positive that _this_ is the happiest he’s ever seen Jack Zimmermann. They celebrate with a round of beers and fries at Jerry’s (well, beers for everyone except Bitty, who hasn’t gotten around to getting a fake ID yet). Eric can’t help but feel a thrill when Jack slides into the booth next to him, confirming just how far they’ve come. Even though they won’t serve him alcohol, Eric is high on endorphins and adrenaline and joy and an iced caramel macchiato that he got on the way to the restaurant. He’s utterly exhausted, or else he imagines that a stack of pies the height of a small child would be sitting in the middle of the table.

 

“Boys, we’re on TV!” Ransom exclaims, and the SMH group of tables gets very loud, then very quiet as they shush each other to hear the sportscasters.

 

“The hockey world has missed the name Zimmermann in the headlines—” one of the men on the program says, and Eric nudges Jack’s arm playfully with his elbow. “And we haven’t seen moves from him like this since he was the #1 NHL prospect.”

 

They all get so excited that it takes them a minute to realize when the broadcast goes south. If a moment ago, the talking heads were singing the praises of Jack Zimmermann, they’ve turned on a dime. The one on the right, in particular, is going for the jugular.

 

“When he becomes a free agent in 2015? Teams aren’t going to be scrambling for the kid. Because if I’m a GM, I don’t want ‘Bob Zimmermann Lite.’ If Jack Zimmermann can even make it to the NHL, he’s going to be _mediocre_ at best.”  


“Someone turn that shit off,” Shitty announces at full volume, words drenched in angry indignation.

 

Eric turns to Jack, whose gaze is still glued to the screen. The tension in his shoulders, his back, is almost tangible. His grip on the napkin in front of him would have snapped bone.

 

“...Jack,” he stutters, trying to comfort, to placate. “That guy’s just some idiot analyst. He’s _wrong_.” Bitty’s never heard anything more wrong in his life. Jack is _spectacular_ on the ice. His skill is preternatural, as if he has a complete map of each second of every game in his head; he _knows_ where the puck is going to go, before it’s even in his possession.

 

It’s almost as if Bitty can see the emotion rippling under Jack’s skin. But it’s not exactly anger, nor the righteous indignation of the rest of the table. It’s more rancid than that.

 

“Excuse me,” Jack grunts, getting up from the table, his hands in iron fists. He heads towards the bathroom, but as Bitty watches, he doesn’t go in the men’s room, but heads directly out the exit to the alley out back.

 

After a moment, Bitty gets up and follows him out. He doesn’t know why he does it. Jack’s barely starting to like him, and this could make things so much work. But he also remembers that day out on the loading dock, an anxious Jack trying to catch his breath.

 

Cautiously, Eric pushes open the door and steps out into the brisk night.

 

The first thing he hears, beyond the cars on the street beyond, is heavy panting. He can’t see Jack, or anyone else in the poorly lit alley. Dumpsters and trash bins punctuate the alley every few feet.

 

“Jack?” Eric asks. The response is a clango] of noise as one of the bins is knocked over. He hears a wild snarl. “Jack!” Eric shouts again. If there’s something or someone out here, what if it startled or attacked Jack? “Are you alright?” he asks, but receives no answer.

 

“Jack, if you’re out here, please let me know you’re okay!” Bitty cries out, voice cracking.

 

That’s when he sees it. The dark figure rises slowly from behind a dumpster, snarling ferociously. Bitty gasps and leaps back, eyes wide in horror. Slowly, the figure moves into the small circle of light from a streetlamp.

 

The horrifying creature is seven feet tall, at least, standing upright despite its huge canine feet. Its head is that of a wolf, but larger than any that Eric has ever seen or heard of before. His ears stand erect and his teeth are long and sharp, almost as long and sharp as the claws that he begins to extend towards Bitty. Eric feels his heart stop, then jolt back into action at double speed.

 

The only thing that keeps him from running are the clothes. While it’s clear that the creature’s body is covered in thick, dark hair, he’s also wearing a white t-shirt, jeans, a black hoodie -- the same outfit Jack had been wearing a moment before. His eyes are the same icy blue.

 

“Jack…” Bitty chokes out. “Is that… you?”

 

The figure roars at him, pacing side to side like a wounded animal, unsure if it should attack.

 

“Jack, please!” He doesn’t know what he’s pleading for, only that if this beast is Jack, then something has gone horribly wrong, and if it’s not Jack, then he’s in horrible danger.

 

The creature stops, shoulders sinking as it lets out a deep whine. It growls again, before a different sort of noise comes from his mouth. “Bittle,” it croaks. The voice is so much deeper than Jack’s, but the accent is unmistakable.

 

“What happened to you?” Eric whispers in shock.

 

“Leave me alone,” Jack [snarls] back, turning away. “You shouldn’t be here.”

 

Bitty doesn’t move. “Are you… a werewolf?” Jack flinches at the word, and Bitty can’t believe he just said it out loud. As a witch, he thought he had a grasp on what magic was real and what was just in stories. This is completely new territory.

 

“Get out of here, Bittle,” growls Jack baring his teeth and snapping them in Eric’s direction. He flinches.

 

“I was just trying to—”

 

“Go away!” Jack interrupts, bellowing. Bitty didn’t think it was possible for a glare from Jack to be any more terrifying, but his wolfish eyes staring out from behind an actual wolf’s snout were enough to send Bitty running back inside.

 

Those eyes haunted him well into the morning.

 

☆☆☆

 

Jack mostly ignores him at practice the next day. He doesn’t bring _it_ up, so neither does Bitty. But the elephant in the room – the _wolf_ in the room – becomes too much for them both during their next checking clinic. Bitty almost wonders if Jack is going to cancel, but sure enough Sunday morning, Jack's there knocking at his door.

 

The mornings are lighter now, so they walks to the rink in daylight, which makes it almost more difficult to bring it up.

 

“Um, Jack?” Bitty starts, hands in his hoodie pocket. “About the other night…”

 

“It’s nothing, Bittle,” Jack responds abruptly. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

 

Bitty shakes his head. “No, that’s not— I was going to say, I won’t tell anyone. I, um, I get it. Having a secret.” If only Jack knew...

 

Jack hums, brushing his bangs back with his hand. “Thanks, Bittle,” he says, resigned. He continues, even though it’s clear he doesn’t want to. “It happens sometimes… when I’m upset. I’m not usually dangerous.”

 

After a few more steps, Bitty replies. “You’re like the Incredible Hulk. The Incredible Were-Hulk.”

 

Jack stops and gawks at him. He doesn’t look angry, though. He looks surprised, like Bitty just said the most impossible thing.

 

Bitty continues, unable to stop himself from rambling. “It’s like the comic book character, only instead of turning into a giant green man when you get angry, you turn into a wolf man, which makes sense, because your eyes are kind of wolfish. But I don’t mean that in a mean way! I just mean that you have very intense eyes.I mean, they’re intense but they’re nice. Like objectively, you have nice eyes.”

 

“Um… okay…?” Jack looks down at his feet. “It’s not when I get angry. Mostly just… anxious.”

 

Bitty wants to reach out, but he doesn’t. “Shitty mentioned that you struggle with anxiety.” Not to mention, all the rumors about his mental breakdown before the draft, but Bitty doesn’t think it’s the right time to bring that up. “Does he know about…” He can’t come up with a good way to phrase this. “...you?”

 

“No,” Jack says. “He knows about my anxiety, but not my… condition.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Bitty can’t help himself. There’s something about knowing this huge secret about Jack that makes him feel unbalanced, like he _owes_ Jack some knowledge in return. Before he can consider whether or not it’s a good idea, Bitty blurts out, “I’m a Summer Witch.”

 

Jack turns to look at him, confused. Bitty continues. “It’s a family coven. All of the women and some of the men in my family have… abilities. Magical powers. Mine is that I make baked goods appear.”

 

Jack stops, and after a moment, to Bitty’s surprise, he lets out a short laugh. “You’re serious?”

 

“Yes.” Bitty doesn’t get what’s so funny, and says as much.

 

“It’s just, what are the odds that our team has not one, but two people with the most useless magical abilities of all time,” Jack says. He laughs again to himself, a silent, cheerless chuckle.

 

Bitty punches him, not enough to hurt, but playfully. “My ability ain’t useless. People love my pies!” he says indignantly.

 

Jack’s face turns thoughtful. “Is that why Johnson is always bringing pies back from the crease? I always wondered why the two of you were bringing them out on the ice.”

 

“Okay, so it’s not always convenient, but it’s not useless.”

 

“Okay, I guess you’re right,” Jack concedes. “Not like mine. Have a panic attack, turn into a monster. Now that’s useless.”

 

Bitty wants to say something, to disagree and make sure Jack knows just how much he’s valued on their team, but they’ve arrived at Faber, and Jack is already shifting into hockey robot mode. And Bitty’s not even sure his opinion is welcome.

 

☆☆☆

 

The next few weeks, Bitty has so many questions about Jack’s… condition. Mostly because Eric himself is a nervous wreck going into playoffs. If Jack turns into a werewolf when he gets anxious, then how on earth does he keep it together enough to play a playoff hockey game? Is he not nervous? What triggers the _change_? Was he born with it? Was he cursed?

He doesn’t ask Jack any of this, obviously. Jack often looks like he’d bite someone’s head off if you looked at him cross-eyed, wolf body or not.

 

The point being that Bitty is freaking out about playoffs. He’s barely sleeping, his homework has fallen off the radar entirely (sorry professors), and he’s desperately afraid that all the work he’s put into taking a check will go out the window in the heat of the moment when it really counts.

That’s the fear flashing in his mind when Jack proposes a risky play in the last few seconds of their quarterfinal match.

 

Jack explains the maneuver, walks Bitty through the motions, the passes, the shots, the enormous D-man that will be in his way…

 

“Jack, I don’t think I should--” His voice cracks, his worry coloring every syllable.

 

“Bittle.” Jack stops him. “I’ve got your back.” He puts a warm, strong arm around Bitty’s shoulders. The support, the true belief that they can do this, radiates from Jack’s gloved hands to the back of Bitty’s neck. He shivers, but covers it up as a nod.

 

“O—... Okay.”

 

Eric sets down the pie that just appeared in his hands. It smells a little burnt, a little bitter, but Jack doesn’t say anything. He just nods, and they take the ice.

 

Bitty feels like his vibrating skin will shake right off. His feet feel sure in his skates, but the rest of his body feels like it will float away. He’s not ready, but he’ll have to be.

 

Jack rockets his way around the ice, whipping through the blue and yellow jerseys like he’s swatting away flies. Eric skates into position, and as if prophesized, the puck finds the end of his stick off a perfect pass from Jack. Bitty pushes forward, mind blank, moving on autopilot, and returns the favor. He doesn’t need to look to know the puck hit its mark and that Jack’s aim was true.

 

He doesn’t need to look, and he couldn’t if he tried. He’s fully focused on the enormous hunk of muscle coming right towards him.

 

Time slows. Eric soars.

 

He hits the ice with a deafening thud. For a moment, everything goes dark…

 

☆☆☆

 

Eric’s mild concussion has the unexpected consequence of inhibiting his magical abilities. The only pies that appear are the ones he bakes while avoiding his final papers and studying. If anyone notices the reduced quantity and longer baking time, they chalk it up to the head injury, which is technically true.

 

The disappointment of getting knocked out of the playoffs fades after a few weeks for everyone except Jack, who throws himself into training and conditioning. Shitty tries to get him to relax and join them for things like Spring C and reading week parties, but they all know it’s a lost cause.

 

On one sunny Sunday afternoon, Johnson corners Eric on the way back from the library.

 

“Bitty, how’s it going, dude?”

 

“Hey, Johnson!” Bitty replies happily. Instead of their usual fist bump or bro hug, Johnson comes up to him and holds out his hand, formally.

 

Eric stares at it for a moment, confused, before reaching out to grasp it. As soon as he does, Johnson shakes it enthusiastically. “You got my dibs, bro.”

 

“Um, thanks?” Bitty replies, gently trying to pull his hand away, despite the fact that Johnson doesn’t seem to have any plan of letting go.

 

“I probably should have made you do Haus chores or something. Ransom and Holster will be pissed. But you’ve been through a lot this year, and I’ve really dug your pies, man. Especially the baked ones.”

 

“What?” It’s all so confusing. Not that Johnson is ever not confusing.

 

“Don’t worry if you have questions. Just go talk to Lardo. She’ll explain everything. Likely with a PowerPoint.”

 

Finally, Johnson lets go and continues off in a random direction. “See you later, Bitty!”

 

☆☆☆

 

It turns out what Johnson means by dibs is that he gets to live in the Haus next year. Bitty’s already dreaming about curtains and team brunch and replacing the gross green couch with something comfortable and sanitary.

 

In fact, he gets so excited when he’s finally moving all of his things into Johnson’s old room before he leaves for the summer that he finally conjures something for the first time since his accident. Humming to himself, he notices two lumpy cupcakes on the dresser. He lets out a relieved sigh, taking a bite into one and realizing it’s not half bad, thank goodness, but he can’t place the flavor right away.

 

Jack drops by on his way out too, to Eric’s surprise. He’d been fairly subdued the past couple months, not _ignoring_ Bitty exactly, but also not going out of his way to hang out.

 

Bitty’s already chattering away, spilling out all his home improvement ideas for next year’s Haus when Jack stops him.

 

“Listen. Before I left, I… I just wanted to make sure that we’re cool…and that you knew… I’m sorry about that hit.”

 

He looked so earnest, so nervous. Bitty hadn’t seen him like that since that morning when Jack told him about his “furry problem.” It also surprised Bitty to think that this had been weighing on him. He never blamed Jack for the hit or for the concussion. But here Jack was apologizing.

 

“And after...everything that happened this year,” Jack paused, and Bitty heard what was left unsaid in the silence. “You still voted for me,” continues Jack. “I really appreciate it.”

 

He looks uncertain, like Bitty might spit in his face and curse his family. And given Bitty’s heritage, a family curse might actually pack a punch. But that’s the farthest thing from Bitty’s mind.

 

“Jack, of course! I mean, it’s been _amazing_ playing with you.” Bitty thinks back to when he cast that vote, and it had seemed like a no-brainer. No one knew hockey, knew their team, as well as Jack. Arguably, he’d had a blind spot when it came to Bitty on his line, but once he got over that, there was no stopping him. He was their leader, full stop.

 

“I can’t think of anyone else I’d want to be captain,” he admits, truthfully.

 

“Thanks, Bittle.” Jack actually smiles then, his icy blue eyes looking almost warm – the wolf nowhere to be seen.

 

Jack leaves him with some final advice for the season, including a dig at Eric’s protein intake, but for once, it actually seems like a true give and take.

 

“You have a good summer too, Jack,” chirps Eric.

 

When he goes back into Johnson’s room – _his room_ – the cupcakes on the dresser have multiplied. A complete dozen sit in a neat row. Bitty takes another bite out of the one on the end. Maple. That’s a new one. He’d have to experiment with that more this summer, he thinks to himself.

 

☆☆☆

 

The annual Phelps Fourth of July party is one of Bitty’s favorite events of the year. It's the bookend celebration of summer, the red-blooded finale to their summer assembly. Every year, the witches in the family gather on the Solstice, the zenith of not only the sun’s march across the sky, but of their family’s strength. The coven meeting starts at high noon, and lasts until the final sunbeam fades.

 

It's somewhat boring, frankly, if you were to ask Bitty, but he gets that it's necessary. There's meditating, chanting, and sometimes, if they're lucky, some sort of formal rites. It's the day when new members of the coven are presented, like Eric was a few years ago. They perform protection charms when there's a new baby or a sickness in the family.

 

But mostly, it's like one ginormous church ceremony with a pagan flare.

 

After the Solstice, they spend the next two weeks in Moomaw’s enormous house by the river, cooking, baking, making preserves, and most importantly gossiping. Slowly but surely, the rest of the family trickles in, the house filling up with aunts and uncles, cousins and friends, even a great aunt or two. Bitty loves it, but his favorite thing is the Fourth.

 

No one ever misses it. If the Solstice is his Moomaw’s day, Independence Day belongs to his Pawpaw. They hold the party on a magically significant 13 days after the Solstice, which is nearly always the 4th itself (the one year in Bitty’s memory that it wasn't caused the biggest fight he'd ever witnessed in his family to date).

 

The “family reunion barbecue” as it was referred to by the many friends and outsiders who also attend, is a lively hubbub of southern hospitality. Children shriek happily as they chase each other with super soakers and popsicle “lightsabers.” The abundant food seems to pop up out of nowhere as fast as people could eat it (seems to, and often does, depending what was cooking and whoever happened to be passing by).

 

Some of Bitty’s fondest childhood memories occurred on the Fourth of July.

 

This year, a few hours into the fun, he finds himself on a couch in the living room with his Moomaw, both of them catching a brief respite from the sweltering, drowning feeling outside.

 

“How are you doing, sweetie?” his Moomaw asks him, patting his leg affectionately. “It's hotter than the devil’s armpit out there.”

 

“Boy, don’t I know it,” Bitty replies, holding the longer wisps of hair off the back of his neck. He should get it cut before he heads back to school… “I should be askin’ how you're doing though, Moomaw. Can I get you a water or lemonade or somethin’?”

 

She smiles and waves him off. “I'm alright sugar pea. I got myself somethin’ a little stronger.” She holds up a glass of her signature drink – a spiked sweet tea – and Bitty laughs.  
  
Bitty glances around the surprisingly empty living room and has a thought. It’s the first time he and Moomaw have had a few minutes alone.  
  
“Um, Moomaw. Can I ask you something?”

  
“Anything, my love.”

 

He fidgets with the hem of his shorts. “Have you ever heard of people… changing?”  
  
“People change all the time, honey.” She takes a sip of her drink. “But I don’t think that’s what you mean now, is it?”  
  
“Not exactly…” Bitty tries to find the right words. “My friend… That is to say, someone I know from school, has a… condition. I just want to know if there’s anything that can be done about it.”  
  
“Medical or metaphysical?” she replies without missing a bit.  
  
Bitty hems and haws a moment. “Um, both? I’m not really sure. But it’s not really… normal.” He corrects himself quickly after seeing his Moomaw’s raised eyebrow. “Not _not_ normal. I mean, it’s not… it could be magical. Sort of. Maybe.”  
  
Moomaw smiles, but her eyes are teasing. “Why don’t you just tell me, honey?”  
  
He scrunches his face and lets it out. “I think he’s a werewolf. Or something.”  
  
“Oh, that’s not one you hear every day,” Moomaw replies, suddenly thoughtful.

  
“It’s not caused by the moon though. At least, I don’t think it is. It’s more based on his feelings and stuff. Have you heard of this happening before?” Bitty asks.  
  


“I’m not exactly sure,” she responds slowly. “There are certain native tribes that have animal spirits and such, and transformation spells and the like. But I’ve only ever heard fairy tales about the Wolf Men.”

 

“But aren’t a lot of the stories true?” Bitty asks, bringing his legs up underneath him on the couch. “Like when I was a kid and the fairy tales were real?”  
  
“Yes, well, just as many of the fairy tales were exaggerations, sweetheart. Tell you what, why don’t I ask your aunt Judy about it. Maybe she’ll—”  
  
“No!” Bitty interjects. Then, more quietly, “I mean, I’d rather keep this between us, if it’s alright.”  
  
Moomaw looks at him, unwavering. “If that’s what you’d like, of course, sugar pea. I won’t tell a soul.”

  
Bitty sighs in relief. “Thanks, Moomaw. I don’t want this to get out or anything.”  
  
“I know how the sisters gossip. But I’m not sure I’ll be able to help you that much without reaching out to the whole coven.”

  
“Oh, okay.” Bitty puts his feet back on the floor, leaning his head in disappointment.  
  
“Actually…” He looks up as an idea comes to her. “I have a few recipes that might help. Ones to ease transitions and changes. It certainly could be worth a shot to try for transformations too.”  
  
“Really? Thanks, Moomaw!” He gives her a hug.  
  
“Catch me tomorrow after the brouhaha has died down, and I’ll write them out for you. You can whip them up in that new house kitchen up at school you’ve been blathering about all week.” Bitty laughs and stands, leaving his grandmother to her spiked tea and air conditioning as he heads out to surely melt more quickly than the root beer floats.

 

After the reunion, summer flies by. Eric’s camp job keeps him busy enough in between tinkering with the various recipes and spells Moomaw wrote out for him. It’s only the “personal responsibility” cupcakes that have been giving him trouble.

  
Finally, he heads back to school in August with a new haircut, new curtains, and all the ingredients for a maple crusted apple pie. The secret ingredient is the homemade caramel (which may or may not contain a transformation spell; turns out changing sugar to caramel is an ideal process for baking magic – who knew?).

 

Ransom, Holster, and Shitty are already back and in fine form. Jack gets there the day after. He compliments both Bitty’s hair and his pie, which is already two more non-hockey related positive comments than he’s ever received from his captain. When he bites into the filling, he gives Bitty a look that he can’t quite place, as if he somehow noticed the charmed caramel. Maybe he did, but either way, he finishes the slice and picks at what’s left in the pie tin for the rest of the night.

 

☆☆☆

 

Bitty _almost_ never uses his magic inappropriately. He’s been lectured about a million times by his mother that they were a gift and were not meant to be used to harm, steal, cheat, or anything else that Moomaw wouldn’t approved of.

 

But he isn’t going to risk not getting into Professor Atley’s Women, Food, & American Culture Class. He makes a strawberry rhubarb pie before going to speak to her about signing up (the strawberries were seeped in a favorable outcome extract, and he’d cast an open-mindedness charm on the rhubarb). He gets an email 15 minutes after meeting with her that he was in. Jack’s still baffled.  
  


“I can’t believe you bribed your way into my history seminar,” he says as they’re sitting at the Haus table.

 

Bitty smirks. “You were the one who told me practices had been moved so I could take it.”

 

“Well, don’t expect me to sit by you,” he replies coolly, and Bitty tries to school his face and not reveal how much that hurts. He really did think they were on their way to friendship... or at least on a path in that direction.

 

“Oh, yeah. I mean, obviously not. I mean, you’re a senior, I’m a sophomore, and you see me enough around the Haus as it is…” He pushes his chair back, scraping at the floor. “And on that note, I’ll just go and leave you alone to finish… whatever it is you’re finishing.”  
  
He stands quickly, but Jack interrupts. “Bittle, I’m just kidding, okay?” Bitty looks at his face, and he sees what he’s starting to recognize as Jack’s teasing face. It looks almost exactly like his captain face, but his eyebrows twitch a bit and his eyes light up. “Of course I’m going to sit with you.”

 

Bitty sits back down, laughing out of habit, but reddening against his will in embarrassment. “Haha, no, you’re right. I got that. You think you’re so funny, don’t you Mr. Zimmermann.” He takes a breath and opens up his new reader for the class. “This is going to be the best class of all time. I can’t wait to discuss butter rationing!”  
  
“Okay, Bittle. Whatever you say.”

☆☆☆

 

It all seems like it’s going to be an easy, breezy year, until Bitty is finally cleared for practice.

 

It’s like all the progress he made the past year disintegrated in just a few months. The third time he passes out on the ice, the coaches call him into their office. There’s a burnt blackberry pie waiting for him in his locker as he changes to go talk to them. It’s a nice distraction, because while Ransom and Holster fight over who gets to eat it, Bitty’s able to slip out without anyone noticing how hard he’s trying not to cry.

 

He makes it all the way through the meeting before he finally lets go. The sobs are so strong they hurt his chest, and a trail of burnt cookies marks his path out to the loading dock, like breadcrumbs leading the way to him. Only he doesn’t want to be found.

 

He cries and curses the fact that even with magical abilities, he can’t change the one thing about himself that he desperately wants to fix. As he cries, the stack of inedible cookies grows higher and higher, until they’re just blackened crumbs. Bitty’s so exhausted by the time his tear ducts finally ease up that he’s almost not sure he can make it back to the Haus. He’s going to have to do something, and do it soon.

 

☆☆☆

 

A few weeks into the semester, Jack knocks on Bitty’s open door while he’s trying to write an essay. He’d never admit it, but he left the door open specifically so that he would have an excuse to procrastinate as the rest of the boys came home.

 

“Hey, Bittle,” Jack greets him. “I’m not interrupting am I?”

 

“Not one bit!” Bitty lies, turning around in his desk chair. “What’s up, Jack?”  
  
Jack hesitates a moment before taking a step over the threshold into Bitty’s room. He stands awkwardly one foot inside. “I was wondering if you wanted to start back up with checking clinics again.”  
  
Bitty turns all the way around to face Jack. “Oh.”  
  
Jack continues, “I’ve noticed you struggling with physicality again this year, and since it’s my fault you were off the ice all summer, I figured I could help.”  
  
“It wasn’t your fault, Jack,” Bitty responds. “Although, if you feeling responsible means that you actually ask me this time instead of banging on my door at four in the morning, you can go ahead and take the blame.”  
  
“Ha ha, Bittle. You’re hilarious,” he replies sarcastically. “But what do you say.”  
  
BItty furrows his brow. “Did the coaches talk to you?”  
  
Jack looks confused. “We talk every day.”  
  
“I meant about me,” Bitty says, his voice small. “About my spot on the team.”

 

Jack’s eyes widen in shock. “What about your spot on the team? You’re not saying… You can’t get cut, Bittle!”  


His response surprises Bittle. “It’s not a big deal, Jack. If I can’t play, I can’t play, it’s not like—”  
  
“It’s a huge deal!” Jack cuts him off. “You’re one of the best players on the team. You’re a key part of our first line offense.” He looks away, frustrated, “I can’t believe Hall and Murray would do this. We actually have a chance to win this year.”  
  
Bitty gapes at Jack, wondering why it almost seems like he’s more upset about Bitty’s potential roster removal than Bitty himself is.  
  
“Well, they haven’t done anything yet. I guess I’ll just have to toughen up or something.”  
  
Jack turns to face him once again. “We’ll start checking practice tomorrow. We’ll get you over this block. Together.”  
  
Bitty can feel his cheeks reddening. Jack just looks so serious. His eyes are intense – not wolfish intense though – just full of motivation and fire. It’s not usual for that energy to be directed at Bitty.  
  
“I mean, if you’re willing, it probably wouldn’t hurt. But what do you say about starting a little later?”  
  
“Later is for losers, Bittle. I’ll see you at 4:30.” Jack nods decisively, pleased with himself, and exits Bitty’s room for his own. Bitty turns, still reeling.

 

“Why do I do this to myself?” he mutters under his breath, setting a new alarm on his phone.

 

☆☆☆

 

For the most part, the checking clinics are helping. Spending extra time on the ice with Jack does make him feel more comfortable, more confident, and it shows during practice. The closer they get to their first game, the better Bitty feels about it all.  


It’s the exact opposite for Jack. He’s approaching his full pre-season surliness. After he snarls at some of the frogs for yelling in the locker room, Shitty pulls him aside and sends him home early, still in his sweaty uniform. Jack doesn’t even hesitate, just throws open the door and storms out.

 

It might just be because Bitty’s looking for it, but it looks like a dark shadow of hair is growing on Jack’s neck, but he pulls his hoody before Bitty can know for certain.

 

As Bitty slowly changes into his own post-practice clothes, lacing up his shoes more methodically than usual, he considers making another Maple Apple Pie, or one of the other recipes Moomaw helped him with this summer.

 

He accidentally lets it slip while chatting on the phone with his mother while mixing the caramel.

 

“Hold on one sec, Mama. I gotta count my stirs for this caramel if I’m gonna get this easing transition charm right.”  
  
He brings the phone back up to his ear when he’s done, and his mother starts fussing immediately.

 

“Easing transition charm? Is everything alright, sweetheart?” She asks, worried. “Are you having trouble with the new house or your classes? Do you need me to come up there?”  
  
“No, no, no. It’s not for me, it’s for Jack.” He realizes his mistake as soon as he says it. Rule number one of dealing with his mother: don’t talk about a problem if you don’t want her to try to fix it, especially when it pertains to a certain famous hockey player’s son.

 

“Is everything alright with Jack, then? He’s not having… _problems_ , again?” She says the word in a whisper.  
  
“It’s honestly nothing, Mama. Just, you know. Everyone’s pretty amped up for the start of the season. Jack sort of… snapped ... at one of the freshman, so figured I would try to cheer him up. You know, it’s good for morale of the whole team.”

 

“That poor boy,” she adds, tutting sadly. Then she brightens. “I’ll send him something too. Maybe I’ll have your Moomaw do some baking for him. Her soothing charms were always stronger than mine.”  
  
“Uh, you don’t have to do that. _Really_ , you don’t need to.”  
  
“Nonsense, honey. It’s no trouble. We’ll send him a care package before your next game.”

 

The conversation quickly shifts back to family gossip and recipes on Pinterest, but Bitty’s still focused on the fact that if Mama tells Moomaw who it’s for, Moomaw might tell her the whole truth. And even if she doesn’t, _she_ will know, and who knows how a coven leader might try to help soothe a werewolf… Bitty reminds himself to intercept that care package before it gets to Jack, but not before tweeting about his ridiculous (yes, caring, but mostly ridiculous) family.

 

☆☆☆

 

The night before their first game, when he can’t sleep, he runs into Jack on the roof, also fighting away insomnia.

 

“Oh, I didn’t wake you, did I?” Jack asks nervously.

 

Bitty shakes his head and sits down next to Jack, far enough apart for bros, but close enough that he can still feel Jack’s body heat – or maybe he’s imagining it. “I couldn’t sleep either.”  
  
Jack exhales a shaky breath, as if he’s been trying not to cry or hyperventilate. He tries to cover it up with a quiet laugh. “You think I’d be used to this by now.”  
  
“What? Playing hockey or staying up past your bedtime?”  
  
“Ha ha, Bittle.” He rubs his face with the palm of his hand. His eyes shine in the light of the nearly full moon. They look wild. “Just being nervous before the season. I’ve only been doing this for like 20 years.”  
  
“Have you, um…” Bitty takes a breath, forcing himself to say the word, even though Jack might snap at him, “transformed?”

 

He’s worried Jack will take it the wrong way, maybe get angry or snap, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even say anything, just nods. He looks ashamed.

 

“Well, that’s… good, right?” Bitty asks, unsure if he’s sounding crazy. “Letting it all out instead of bottling it all up.”  
  
Jack’s response comes in his classic monotone. “That’s the most optimistic anyone has ever been about my…”

 

“Furry little problem?”  
  
“I was going to say condition.”

 

“Furry little condition, then. It’s only a problem if you think it is.”  
  
“It’s a problem if I hurt or scare someone on the team.” He inhales in a large, hitched breath, but doesn’t let it out. “I hate it sometimes,” Jack admits after some time. “I used to hate it all the time, but I had a good therapist after… after my accident. But I hate that it makes people worry about me.”  
  
Bitty blushes. “About that…This is probably a bad time to tell you that my mom sent you a care package.”  
  
Jack turns to look at him. “What?”  


“Yeah… I might have said something about how you were… stressed… about the season. They might also have some sort of charms on them. I doubt they’d help, or that they’d kill you or something, but either way, I stole the package. I wasn’t going to tell you about them, but I don’t know, I guess I think you deserve to know. Or something.”  
  
Jack continues to stare.  


“Please say something.” Bitty pleads. Now it’s his turn to be embarrassed.

  
“Baked goods aren’t on our diet plan.”  


 Bitty blinks. “Of course, you’re right. I’ll just bring them to the coaches or my sociology lecture or something. No worries.”

 

“But--” Jack interrupts, “maybe this once, it couldn’t hurt.”

 

They climb back through the window, and Bitty sheepishly hands him the box, apologizing for the presumption of his mother. Jack just smiles softly, opening one of the Tupperware containers inside and splitting a snickerdoodle in half, handing one of the pieces to Bitty.

 

“Thanks, Bittle,” he says, taking the box from him and holding it under his arm. “Goodnight. Get some sleep. We have an important game tomorrow.”

 

“You too, Captain. We need you at your best, not some sleep-deprived zombie.”  
  
“Wolfs are fine, then, but zombies are where you draw the line?” Bitty gawks at him. A joke? From Jack? It’s like spotting a shooting star, and before he can process it, Jack’s already back in his room, door closed for the night. Bitty shakes his head, chuckling softly under his breath as he clicks his own door shut.

 

☆☆☆

 

After that, something shifts. They win their first game, 3-1, and it’s like a visible weight lifts from Jack’s shoulders. It’s not like _all_ his stress is gone; there’s still meetings with his agent and team officials and, you know, being a full-time student athlete. But overall, he smiles more, and Bitty takes notice.

 

He really wishes he didn’t.

 

If Ransom and Holster and his sweet, baby frog, Chowder, didn’t inhale the pies as quickly as they popped up out of the blue, Bitty might have a problem on his hands. As it is now, no one’s caught on that he’s making _literally impossible_ amounts of pie. Not even Jack, who chirps Bitty even if there’s one pie. Which thankfully means he hasn’t noticed the direct correlation between impossible pies and half-smiles on his trips to Annie’s. For example.

 

Bitty’s doomed.

 

It comes to a head while they’re baking for class. The whole point is to use old-fashioned methods, so Jack keeps chirping Bitty about using his gift to cheat. He chirps Bitty a lot.

 

Chirping feels a lot like flirting, sometimes.

 

But he also lets Bitty see past the walls he’s so carefully built around himself. When Bitty asks him about how his decision process is going, Jack doesn’t give him the generic robot response he gives The Swallow, or even the frogs. His guard is down, and his hopes and nerves and anxieties and excitement swirl together, like a puff of flour from a mixer. Jack’s face lights up beautifully, and Bitty can’t look away.

 

He’s so, so doomed.

 

He hears a light thump behind him and turns to see a pie on the table, mocking and betraying him. Before he can blink, another pops up beside it. As he rushes to hide them, another – and isn’t this just perfect – poofs into existence right on top of the first.  
  
As fast as he can, Bitty scoops up the incriminating pies and rushes up to his room, shutting the door expertly with his foot. He dumps the pies on his desk and falls face first on his bed.  
  
He likes Jack. He _like likes_ Jack. How did he not see it before? Sure, he’s objectively hot and surprisingly funny and cares about Bitty in his own bizarre Jack way. But something about the way Jack talked so _passionately_ about his future triggered something in Bitty’s brain: a vision of him and Jack discussing other life decisions, like buying a house together, picking out a puppy… having kids.

 

Lordy, he needed to cool his jets. He couldn’t afford to get this worked up about his straight friend and teammate. That was on the first page of the gay boy’s handbook. Never fall for a straight boy. It only leads to heartbreak.

 

☆☆☆

 

If there was an upside about heartbreak and unrequited love, it’s that endlessly obsessing over someone meant that Bitty didn’t have time to obsess over the unrelenting schedule of practice, classes, training, homework, _nutrition_ (why did he have a crush on Jack Zimmermann again?), more homework, more training, more anxiety about checking and keeping his spot on the team.

 

All things considered, the soul-crushing weight of trying not to make too much eye contact with Jack to not give away his hopeless feelings should have been the easiest thing he was dealing with. Yet only one of those things had him curled up in the fetal position on his bed listening to Taylor Swift on repeat. (Lardo walked in on him that way once, and Bitty couldn’t even form a sentence as to why. She generously, blessedly just left him to pine in silence. He’s so screwed.)

 

But somehow, he managed to make it through classes and finals and their last game before break. He arrived back at the Haus from his last final to find Ransom and Holster carrying a keg up the front steps. “KEG-STER. KEG-STER. KEG-STER.”  
  
Bitty followed them up. “I know y’all aren’t tapping that yet, but I basically just failed my French exam, and I could use a drink. Do we have anything else?”  
  
“Do we have anything else?” Holster yelled back, grinning. “Ransom, did you hear this shit? Bitty wants to know if we have any alcohol.”

 

Ransom’s chirp face is ready and raring to go. “Bits, this is _Epikegster._ It’s like you don’t even know us.”

 

“Yeah,” Holster continues. “Your liver should be quaking in his boots.”

 

They direct him upstairs where Shitty and Lardo are testing their tub juice on the Frogs.

 

“It should taste like booze, but we’re trying to disguise the burning sensation and fume-y-ness,” Shitty explains to Chowder, Nursey, and Dex.  
  
Dex takes his shot first, and scrunches his face, but doesn’t flinch. “Well, you got the tasting like booze part down.”

 

Bitty leaves them to it and heads down to Shitty’s “secret” fridge in the basement where he keeps the “good beer.” (It’s PBR.) He cracks it open, and hopes he – and his liver – are ready for what’s to come.

 

It turns out, he isn’t.

 

The whole thing starts off well enough. Epikegster is well, epic. Bitty’s never seen so many people in the Haus at once. They’ve spilled out into the front yard, which Lardo decorated artfully with Christmas lights. It’s as festive as it is debaucherous.

 

The inside is darker, but just as debaucherous. Bitty bobs his head, swinging his hips mindlessly to the beat as he sips his tub juice. (Shitty finally figured out the recipe. It tastes delicious.)

 

He didn’t think he was that drunk, but when he sees Jack step out of the kitchen holding a red solo cup, he thinks he might be. Aren’t hallucinations a thing with alcohol? How strong is this tub juice?

 

But it really is Jack. He spots Bitty and visibly relaxes before walking over.  


“Hey, Bittle. I see you found the tub juice,” Jack chirps as he slides in next to him.  
  
“Excuse you, I’m not that drunk.” He even sounds it...mostly.

 

“Not yet.” He smiles as he says it.

 

Bitty crosses his arms. “And what’s that in your cup? A protein shake?”

 

“It’s one of Shitty’s ‘good beers,’” he says smugly, which makes Bitty laugh.

 

And it’s not the last time that Jack succeeds in making Bitty laugh. Somehow, somewhere, Jack picked up some charm, which really isn’t good for all of Bitty’s feelings. At least one pie appears in the recycling bin behind Jack. And at some point during Jack’s story about how he rescued the Haus from the football team, a double chocolate cookie joins the condoms in the bag above Jack’s head. It’s more distracting than Bitty would care to admit.

 

He can feel the hearts in his eyes, but for the first time since he put a name to the swirly feeling in his chest he doesn’t care, because Jack is looking right back.

 

“We should take a selfie or something together,” he says finally, and Bitty stops breathing. He tries to play it off as a joke, but Jack is serious. He’s leaning in close enough that Bitty can smell his aftershave. Bitty’s fingers fumble as he tries to pull up the camera. Jack’s arm leans into his. There’s surely a new pie somewhere, but Bitty’s too busy trying not to hyperventilate to care.

 

That’s when Kent walks in.

  
Bitty knows who Kent Parson is. He's even sort of starstruck when he sees the NHL star in the flesh. But at some point during the hullabaloo of selfie lines and beer pong challenges, Bitty loses Jack to the crowd, and it's not until Shitty explains it that he realizes there might be a connection.

 

He doesn't mean to find Jack. He'd all but given up, a little shaky on his feet from his last cup of tub juice. He was debating whether to plug his phone in and head back to the party or just take a _short_ nap and possibly not wake up until morning when he hears them.

 

Jack is yelling at Kent, and Kent is pleading for Jack to play in Las Vegas. There's some shuffling and pacing along the squeaky floorboards, and then it's Kent yelling, saying just _horrible_ things.

 

It happens so fast. Before Bitty can even find his key, Kent is storming out of Jack's bedroom, his shirt disheveled like he and Jack had been... fighting? Or something.

 

The barbed insults Kent throws out as he storms off hit their target.

 

“Jack?”

 

Jack's trembling uncontrollably, his eyes a sharp, icy blue. The shift in his features is imperceptible as it happens, but there's suddenly a harshness to him that wasn't there a heartbeat ago. He looks wild. The hair on the back of Bitty’s neck prickles.

 

He reaches out an arm (to do what he doesn't know), but before he can touch Jack, Jack turns on his heel and slams the door, a dark shadow of fur coming over his skin.

 

☆☆☆

 

He doesn't see Jack before he has to leave for Georgia, but he does manage to sneak the bag of cookies he made while cleaning up the Haus into Jack's bag. He drizzled the last of his batch of charmed caramel before packing them away, crossing his fingers that Jack would find some solace at home.

 

The thank you text he sends Bitty later that night (because of course Jack Zimmermann unpacks as soon as he gets home) makes something swirl up warm and tingly in his stomach.

 

Bitty tries to distract himself from the random thrill of the sporadic texts they exchange with a buttload of baking. He makes an orange cake infused with a good health charm because he knows it's his Pawpaw's favorite. He bakes sugar cookies with calming essence of chamomile because he knows his little cousins are bound to eat the whole batch. He makes three different (regular, non-magical) pies with his mama, because it's Christmas after all.

 

But by the time New Year’s rolls around, he’s desperate to go back to school. He reaches his loneliness threshold as the clock strikes midnight, and he’s the only person past the point of puberty without someone to kiss. He watches his parents, aunts and uncles, neighbors, even his teenage cousins and their high school sweethearts draw each other close as the kids shout and pull the poppers open. Even his weird neighbor Brian brought a date this year.

 

At least back at the Haus, Shitty would plant one on him as a joke. Or maybe Bitty could kiss someone else, disguise it as a joke and no one would be the wiser…even though that's not really a luxury he has as the gay kid on the team.

 

Mostly, Bitty is just exhausted of having to hide parts of himself. At school, he hides being a witch. Here in Georgia, he has to hide liking boys, even though his traitorous feelings are threatening to bubble up every time his mother asks him how he's doing (or worse, how _Jack_ is doing) or when his father asks if any cute girls have caught his eye.

 

He hides all of this even now with a smile as he picks up his youngest cousin and gives him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. “Happy New Year, ya hooligan.”

 

☆☆☆

 

Finally in mid-January, Bitty flies back up to Samwell, and he's so _happy_ to be back with his boys in the Haus that he basically breaks Betsy.

 

“Is there such thing as oven fatigue?” Bitty asks Dex who showed up about 10 minutes after Chowder dropped in to say hello, “and you know, just see you, Bitty, because I missed you!!  But also I missed your cookies. Oh, but not as much as I missed you though!!! I don't want you to think I only care about your baking, because I like you even when you don't bake anything—”

 

“It's okay, Chowder. Have a cookie.”

 

“Thanks Bitty!!”

 

As the frogs munch away happily, Dex gently shakes the oven, opening it carefully since it's still warm.

 

“I don’t know, Bitty. It could be the wiring. It also might just be old. And, you know, you kinda do bake a lot. Maybe you overdid it.”

 

“Or maybe it got used to having you bake so much that it went through withdrawals during break and now it's a shock to the system to have you back,” Nursey chimes in from his seat. “That happened to my friend Nick once, but like, with coke.”

 

“Oh my god, the oven is addicted to Bitty!” Chowder exclaims, mouth full.

 

“Gosh, I hope she'll be okay. I still got two and a half years here, old girl.” Bitty pats the corner of the oven fondly.

 

He doesn't say that he only bakes about half of his pies in an actual oven. For example, the maple sugar-crusted apple pie that Jack finds in the kitchen directly after complimenting Bitty's squat form _definitely_ wasn't there two minutes ago. But it still gives Bitty a thrill when Jack cuts himself a slice.

 

☆☆☆

 

The second half of the hockey season comes with an even more brutal schedule. They play against teams that they'll likely see again during the playoffs. And yet, despite the high caliber opponents and unforgiving pace of games, they're playing better than ever.

 

Every single man on their first _and_ second line is on pace for personal point records. Bitty doubles his assist total from last year when they still have four regular season games. He and Jack are a near unstoppable force, so long as the other team doesn't get too physical. But even Bitty's fear of checking is improving. He mostly relies on out-skating opponents, using his sixth sense of Jack Zimmermann-awareness to swipe the puck exactly where it needs to be.

 

It's the most Bitty's ever had playing hockey, and he's pretty sure the rest of the team agrees.

 

Team breakfast is now an epic affair. They've gotten so rambunctious that even Caitlin Farmer, who is literally attracted to Chowder (and his natural energy and volume), won't sit within two tables of them.

 

They work as hard as they play. Bitty spends more time in the weight room than he does in the kitchen these days. Between that and being too tired to conjure anything, his pie production goes down noticeably.

 

An unintended side effect is that he finds himself at Annie's more often to get his sugar (and caffeine) fix. An unintended consequence of _that_ is that more often than not Jack joins him. Maybe it's just because their schedules are more in sync this semester or something, but he always seems to be around – sometimes even hovering aimlessly – when Bitty announces a coffee run.

 

He tries not to read too much into it when Jack stops letting him pay for his own coffee. He protests the first few times, but Jack always insists.

 

“I'm good for it, Bittle,” he explains. “I just got off the phone with my agent to discuss potential signing bonuses.”

 

“I always wanted a sugar daddy,” he jokes, blushing because he didn't mean to say that out loud. Luckily, Jack laughs, too.

 

“It would help if you didn't buy such expensive fancy coffee drinks.”

 

“Hey, you offered. No take backs.”

 

They sit down at their favorite of the mismatched tables, the one in the corner with “Dickface was here” carved into the top that faces River Quad.

 

“So, you talked to your agent… Does that mean you've made a decision?” Bitty asks, pulling the edges of his sleeves over his hands.

 

“Not yet,” replies Jack. “I've made it clear I won't be accepting any offers before the season's over, and no one wants to be the first. But I'm narrowing it down.”

 

Bitty cocks his head. “You don't seem as...nervous...about all of this. That seems… good, right?”

 

“Yeah, it's good.” Jack's face does something funny. “I had a really good talk with my therapist over break. We made a chart.”

 

Jack doesn't offer any more than that, and Bitty doesn't press. “That's great, Jack!”

 

“I mean, I expect it to feel a lot bigger, once the actual offers come in. If they come in…”

 

“Now now, less of that self-doubt, Mr. Zimmermann. We were literally just talking about your potential signing bonus. It's not a matter of if, but who. And you just gotta trust that it will all work out – if you put the work in of course.”

 

Jack's lips turn upward slightly. “Thanks, Bittle. I can always rely on you for some perspective.”

 

“That's what I'm here for,” Bitty says. “That, and coffee. And speaking of which…”

 

He pushes back his chair and walks over to where his and Jack's drinks are sitting on the counter.

 

They take them to-go, because Jack brought his camera and wants to chase some geese like a lunatic. Bitty loves him anyway.

 

He just wishes it didn't hurt so much.

 

☆☆☆

 

Something strange about Jack's “senior mood,” as Bitty has taken to calling it, is that he's always around. Like a lot. Even last semester, Jack seemed to retreat in on himself when they had parties or after a long roadie. But for some reason now it's like he's trying to cram in as much time with the team as possible before he graduates. At least, that's the best explanation Bitty has for his behavior. He loiters longer in the locker room waiting for the last stranglers (a group Bitty is often a part of). When Lardo suggests froyo, he tags along with the group. When Bitty drags the Dibs-seeking frogs to Stop N Shop, Jack’s usually waiting by the door, already wearing his hat and jacket.

 

Tonight, Bitty is procrasti-studying in the kitchen when Jack joins him with his laptop. He taps away at the keyboard as Bitty pretends to go over lecture slides but keeps flipping tabs over to Pinterest.

 

The casual comfort and camaraderie is nice, but it also hurts. Like a popcorn kernel stuck in his teeth, he's constantly aware of Jack's presence, but unable to fix the feeling. But he can't keep himself away.

 

After a while, Bitty sighs, apparently loud enough for Jack to start chuckling at him.

 

“You okay over there, Bittle?” Jack chirps.

 

“Sorry. I didn't mean for that to come out so loud. But like, who even cares this much about sociology. I can't take this anymore!” He throws his head back dramatically, mostly because he thinks it will make Jack laugh.

 

It does. “I'm sort of surprised you haven't given up and started baking yet.”

 

Bitty groans again. “I would, if the oven were functioning normally. It's acting more temperamental than a teenager.”

 

“Oh, that sucks. I'm sorry, Bittle.”

 

Bitty lets his face show his real concern, for once. “Yeah, and the hardest, most worrying part about not being able to bake is that the pies don't stop coming.” Jack gives him a confused look and Bitty continues. “It's my… fruity little problem.”  
  
“Ahh, I see.”  
  
“If I don't get this oven right fixed, it's only a matter of time before someone finds out.”

 

“Oh. Right. I didn't think about it that way,” Jack responds with a frown.

 

“I mean, I had a hard enough time coming out as… you know… as gay. But at least most people know gay folks exist. This is a whole ‘nother story.”

 

“You don't have to explain it to me. If anything, I get it more than anyone.”

 

Bitty looks away embarrassed. “I'm sorry. Here I am complaining about some pies, when you have your own issues to deal with. I must seem so whiny to you.”

 

Jack shakes his head. “Not at all. However our… little problems… show themselves isn't important. But keeping them secret keeps us safe. That's what my dad drilled into me from day one…”

 

After a beat, Bitty decides to say probably the stupidest thing he possibly could. “I'm so glad I can share this with you, Jack. I didn't think I'd make it keeping my secret this far from my family, keeping it from the team. I still don't think I can handle it on my own. But sharing this secret with you… I dunno. I do feel safer. I don't feel so alone.”

 

Jack doesn't smile, but it's like a small weight lifts from his shoulders. “I didn't think I'd ever tell anyone,” he admits slowly. “But since you did find out, I think… if anyone did have to know, I'm glad it's you.”

 

Bitty's heart squeezes in his chest. He knows he shouldn't read too much into it. “Mutually assured destruction,” he jokes, sardonically, but Jack is already shaking his head.

 

“No, no. Not because of that. I'm glad you know, because, well, you're you. You're a good person, Bittle.”

 

“Uh, thanks?” He doesn't mean for it to come out as a question, but it always catches him off guard when Jack pays him a compliment. “Thanks.”

 

“Now finish your homework, Bittle. We've got an early morning tomorrow.” He closes his laptop and is gone before Bitty knows it.

 

☆☆☆

 

They roll into the playoffs on the high of a four-game win streak, and the atmosphere in the locker room and in the Haus is electric. They've never played this well, and it portents good things for the semifinals.

 

Bitty skips class one day because it's the only time he can think of to make another batch of his charmed caramel, and secretly mixing it into the protein cookies that he force feeds Jack after workouts.

 

“Are you sure there isn't any sugar in here, Bittle?” Jack asks incredulously, even while biting into his second one.

 

“Of course not!” Bitty lies. “Would I lie to you?”

 

“About baked goods? Probably.”

 

“Well even if I am lying, you gotta keep your weight up. Weren't you just lecturing Shitty about that yesterday?”

 

At that moment, Shitty flies up to them like a whirlwind, grabbing a fistful of cookies out of the container Bitty is holding.

 

“Speak of the devil,” Bitty chirps, as Shitty groans pornographically.

 

“God, this might be the best fucking thing I've ever eaten.”

 

“Hungry, Shits?” Jack chirps, reaching for another cookie while he thinks Bitty's distracted.

 

“You're fucking right I'm hungry. I'm fucking starving after that practice.”

 

“You looked good out there,” replies Jack. “You too, Bittle.”

 

Bitty blushes, but smiles. “We do look good out there. You think it will be enough?”

 

“Those Harvard fuckers won't know what hit ‘em.”

 

“I have to agree.” Jack offers Bitty a lopsided smile that melts his insides like butter. “The way we've been playing, I think we can take the whole thing.”

 

☆☆☆

 

The thing is, they don't.

 

In the end, despite the hard-fought minutes, the near-psychic passes, the sweat, blood, and pies left out on the ice, it's not enough.

 

The final buzzer rings out like a dying scream. In a way it is. It's the death of their championship hopes and dreams. They shake the other team's hands and watch silently as they swarm together joyfully, confetti falling through the air like ash.

 

When they're finally allowed to leave the ice, they do so in a somber single-file line. Nursey chucks his helmet as soon as he gets inside the dressing room, and the sound makes Bitty jump.

 

He quickly takes off his Jersey and uses it to cover the smoldering pie in his cubby, but after that he finds it hard to even move. Coach Hall leaves them with some heartfelt words about how proud he is of their work, their grit, their heart. Despite his sincerity, the sentiment doesn't really land.

 

Bitty looks around for Jack, for reassurance that he's okay, maybe a nod of encouragement, a captainly speech.

 

He's nowhere to be found.

 

As the rest of the boys slowly start removing pads and gear, heading to the showers and out to the stands to say hi to friends and family, Bitty sneaks out the back. He tries to remember the path through the concrete labyrinth, past piles of colored paper, smiling people.

 

He finally reaches the back exit to the loading dock. He pushes gently at a door marked “Staff Only,” and creeps inside.

 

He's met with an inhuman growl. Bitty jumps, startled, but not scared. It's not a vicious noise. It sounds like a wounded animal. Maybe it is.

 

About 20 feet away, Jack sits concrete slab. His jersey and pads are strewn along the floor, clearly ripped away quickly as Jack's body stretched and rebuilt itself. He turns to face Bitty, his cold, wolfish eyes filled with heartbreakingly human tears.

 

Bitty takes a few steps forward and Jack jerks towards him like a halted attack. He growls low, the sound fading into a whine. Bitty takes a few more steps towards him.

 

Jack pants gruffly but doesn't take his eyes off Bitty. They're both in a sort of limbo between fight and flight.

 

Slowly Bitty makes his way to where Jack is sitting. The wolf is nearly twice Jack's usual size, but he looks almost small. Broken.

 

Bitty holds his hand out, palm up, as if he were approaching a stranger's dog. In response, Jack holds out a large clawed paw. Gently, he cups Bitty's elbow in his palm, and Bitty clutches at the fur in the crook of his arm.

 

Before he even realizes that it's happening, he's wrapped around Jack's broad, furry shoulders. Their tears mingle together in the fur on his chest.

 

After what feels like a short forever clinging to one another, Jack's whines and growls peter out into a noise almost like a purr. Bitty strokes his shoulders mindlessly until the fur suddenly feels finer.

 

Before his eyes and beneath his fingers, Jack starts to shift. His muscles ripple, and second by second his skin gets smoother. His body seems to fold in on itself until he’s once again just a boy.

 

Surreptitiously, Jack wipes at his tear-stained face. “I probably smell like a cross between dirty pads and wet dog,” he tries to joke.

 

Bitty doesn't say he thinks Jack smells addicting. “It ain't nothing I ain't used to living in the Haus.”

 

Jack sighs and stands, forcing Bitty to loosen his arms around Jack and let him go. They walk to the locker room together, following a path of blackened cookies like breadcrumbs in a story.

 

☆☆☆

 

The next few days are rough. All Bitty ever wants is to take care of his boys through rough times, but he's never had to deal with _all_ of them going through rough times at once.

 

But surprisingly, it's Jack who helps guide them out of the funk. After sulking in his room for about 24 hours, he finally comes out, basically barging into the living room where Ransom and Holster are playing video games while Bitty messes around on Twitter.

 

He looks determined. “Anyone want to go get chicken fingers and play a pickup game at Faber?”

 

Ransom looks at Holster, who shrugs. “Sure, man. What time?”

 

“Now? Unless you're busy…”

 

“Now's fine,” Bitty adds. “Let me get my shoes.”

 

“Where's Shitty? He should come. And Lardo. And maybe I should invite the frogs? They'd definitely come out.” Jack's almost rambling, but there's a reassuring feeling to his resolve.

 

More than half the team ends up tagging along, and while it's not more fun than celebrating a playoff win, it's also not _less_ fun. It's different. It's not a high or low where Bitty would expect a pie to pop up. It's simply a feeling of contentment knowing that these boys have his back and he'll always have theirs.

 

☆☆☆

 

Betsy makes it until the end of midterm season before she finally crosses over into the realm of the dead.

 

“I don't think there's anything else I can do for it, Bitty,” Dex admits, standing and wiping the grease on a bandana in his pocket. “The wiring's shot.”

 

Not only had Dex used all his technical skills to try to save Betsy, but Bitty had been scrubbing her with a mixture of rosemary and yarrow root. His mother used to rub it on his forehead when he was sick, and in a last ditch attempt at anthropomorphizing Betsy, he hoped that maybe it would work on a sick inanimate object too.

 

He rubbed the leftovers on himself after Dex reveals the diagnosis. Finals season with no oven… It’s a recipe (pun not intended) for disaster. The stress of school combined with the stress of being found out will probably do him in.

 

He doesn't want to worry his mother, who would inevitably rush up to Samwell. And with his only other potential confidante embroiled in his own life-altering life decisions, Bitty doesn't know how to handle it.

 

He almost considers befriending the LAX team for oven privileges. Mostly he just cries sometimes in his room where no one would see the scorched bottom cookies that have started lining up on his dresser.

 

Luckily, Jack's decision-making process becomes a group activity (and a great distraction). Gathered around one of Ransom's spreadsheets, Bitty finds solace in helping someone else (and in the fact that the west coast teams are dropping lower and lower in the elaborate ranking system).

 

“Why do we need all these crazy numbers and shit,” groans Shitty, when the teams are once again reshuffled by the addition of “fan vitriol” in the equation. “Just go with your heart, Jackabelle. Which is obviously as close to me as possible.”

 

Jack smiles. “I'll miss you too, Shits. But it's easier to… detach… or something this way.”

 

“Does doing it this way make it easier?” Bitty asks in his camp counselor “I already know the right answer, but you need to learn a lesson voice. “Because then it's worth it, Shitty.”

 

“Ugh, I know, Bits. And you know I'll love and support you no matter where you end up, Jack, even if it's playing basketball on Moron Mountain.”

 

As they dive back into debating the importance of past playoff performance, Bitty is proud that he didn't actually say what he really thought, which is that his heart might break if Jack goes any further than New York.

 

And just maybe, Jack feels the same – not about Bitty of course, but all of them – because when the rest of the boys are distracted talking about what they'd do with a few extra million, Bitty spots Jack quietly tweaking the weight of the “distance from Samwell” column so that the Providence Falconers pops up to the top of the list.

 

☆☆☆

 

The closer it gets to finals week, the harder it is for Bitty to hide his pie problem. When Betsy had been on the fritz, it was easy enough to explain away a smoldering stress pie, but now that she's fully out of commission, the stress of his stress being noticed is stressing him out even more than ever.

 

That's why his birthday is such an unbelievable surprise.

 

Not only did the boys – _his_ boys, goodness he loves them all so much – manage to keep him in the dark about the kegster, they managed to orchestrate a full oven installation. It feels like all the air combusted in his lungs, leaving him with no words and an excess of feelings. The tears slide down his face as easily as a well-greased cookie sheet.

 

“I need to bake something this very second,” he finally manages, laughing around happy sons. He pulls the oven door open to peek inside, and sure enough, there are not one, not two, but three perfectly golden pies. He hiccups hysterically. Jack, the only one with a view of the inside, smiles broadly, winking at him.

 

“Give it a minute and I bet you'll have enough pies to feed an army.”

 

Bitty can’t help himself. He throws himself at Jack's solid chest and cries, overwhelmed by happiness and humility and utter shock.

 

To his credit, Jack hugs him back, and it feels like a warm summer day.

 

It's not until nearly midnight, well into the impromptu kegster, that Bitty _actually_ gets to take the oven for a spin. He'd had to fake it for the first few hours, removing pie after magical pie from inside the oven. And it was interesting: those magical pies in Betsy 2 (final name TBD) taste even better than the homemade ones.

 

☆☆☆

 

Over the next couple weeks, Bitty barely comes up for air, what with all the frantic baking, frantic studying, and frantic trying not to freak out about Jack and Shitty graduating.

 

He isn't the only nervous one. Jack spent an entire afternoon as a wolf two days before graduation. That didn't even happen when he finally signed his Falconers contract. (Apparently saying hello your future was more anticlimactic than saying goodbye to your past. Bitty would have to file that away for his own graduation, which felt both a million years away and all too soon.)

 

Bitty only knows about the _furry little relapse_ because Jack had texted him to bring him a Gatorade, but not to come inside. When he dropped it off in front of the door, Jack had growled, “Thank you,” in his gruff, animal voice. When it became clear that Bitty wasn't going to move away from the door, Jack leapt off his bed with a heavy thud, then carefully cracked the door open to let him inside.

 

They sat mostly in silence. Bitty didn't hug Jack this time. It felt… taboo. But they did sit side by side, shoulders and thighs touching as Bitty jabbered on about stupid things like Ransom and Holster's idea to build a water slide from the roof and Nursey's failed attempt to ask out his TA and the number of peaches he was going to buy at the farmer's market when he got back to Madison.

 

He talked and talked until Jack's breathing evened out and his body began a slow metamorphosis back into human form.

 

Shitty, on the other hand, dealt with stress of graduating in a much different way, by smoking one joint for every year he spent at Samwell then eating an entire pizza lying in Lardo's lap.

 

It was a miracle they all made it to graduation day.

 

But on the morning of graduation, it seemed like Bitty was in fact the _only_ one on the brink of an anxiety attack. From what he could tell, both Jack and Shitty had made their peace, or something.

 

Everyone was cheerful during breakfast – bacon, eggs, blueberry pancakes, and mimosas that were “a tiny bit of mim, a whole lotta ‘osa” – except for Bitty, who did his best to keep it together.

 

Even when he was a small child, listening to fairy tales, he never did well with endings, especially sad ones.

 

Now his two main confidantes were heading to Harvard Law and the NHL, both a universe away, despite being within driving distance. Nothing was ever going to be the same.

 

And on top of it all, he was ending the year with these monumental secrets deep in his chest. How could he let Shitty move away without telling him about his magic?

 

How could he let Jack leave without telling him how much he meant?

 

Just before they left for the main quad for the ceremony, Bitty found a pie sitting on the counter: bitter blackberries, undercooked in the center. Unfinished.

 

He sighed deeply and shoved it in the fridge before hurrying out the door after his friends.

 

The ceremony itself was beautiful… and extremely boring, pretty standard as far as graduations go. They cheered wildly when Jack’s name was called, and would have missed Shitty’s if Lardo hadn’t hit them on the arms. “Remember, _that’s_ his first name!”

 

It dragged on and was over far too quickly. Before he knew it, Bitty’s standing in front of Jack, about to say goodbye.

 

It feels too big. It feels too much. He embraces Jack and squeezes his body as he tries to squeeze back tears.

 

In the end, he can’t say it.

 

He mumbles some nonsense about seeing Jack on TV as he fixes his tie. Then, they part ways.

 

His tears taste sweet as they roll down his face.

 

The walk back to the Haus is filled with relief and regret in equal measure. He knows he’s going to think back on this moment, this choice, for the rest of his life, even if he ends up happily married to some nice guy with their house and a yard and two beautiful children. He’ll always think back to this moment and wonder, “what if?”

 

What use is magic if it’s useless when you need it most? Bitty wonders this as he throws his suit into his luggage and throws on his coziest hoody for the plane. There’s still more than an hour before his ride picks him up, so he cleans out the fridge, chucks the bitter, unfinished pie in the trash, and finally ends up in Jack’s – now Chowder’s – room to wallow in his sadness like his mama raised him to do: by doing chores.

 

He’s on his third repetition of “Halo,” when Jack startles him.

 

“Bitty.” He steps closer and reaches into his pocket to pull out a half-eaten cookie. “I found this in my pocket after you left.”  

 

Bitty looks at him confused, and he continues. “It made me realize something.”

 

Bitty’s eyes widen as Jack puts the cookie back and takes another step forward. The space between them shrinks as Jack pulls him towards him. He gazes at Bitty for an eternity, then finally leans in to kiss him.

 

Jack’s lips like a freshly picked peach: soft, warm, and deliciously wet. Before he can stop himself, Bitty is sucking on them to soak in as much as the taste as he can. Unlike a peach, Jack kisses him right back.

 

His fluttering hands find a sanctuary on Jack’s chest. He’s not really aware of them after that. His mind is too focused and overwhelmed on all their other points of contact – Jack’s large hand clutching his face like something precious, his other hand tantalizingly firm at his lower back. He slips it a fraction of an inch lower, and Bitty gasps into his mouth, shivering with arousal, which only makes Jack deepen the kiss even more.

 

At first, Bitty mistakes Jack’s rumbling phone for the monumental shift in his own mind. He’s experiencing an earthquake of sensation, why wouldn’t it be vibrating?  
  
Unfortunately, it iss in fact Jack’s phone, calling him away. Had Bitty been in a more coherent headspace, he might have pouted a bit. Instead, he looks up on Jack’s beautiful face in a daze.

 

“I gotta go, but I’ll text you, okay?”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
They kiss again, a bright, brilliant spark of joy and wonder taking hold inside of Bitty’s chest.  
  
“I’ll text you.”  


Jack looks as dazed as Bitty feels, but he flashes him a quick smile before rushing back down the stairs.

 

Bitty stands frozen, unable to process the last several minutes. His lips tingle pleasantly, but his heart aches. Many of the rest of his nerve endings are rebooting.

 

After a moment, he finally addresses his weak knees and sits in the desk chair behind him.

 

_Squish_.

 

His butt lands squarely on a warm apple pie.

 

His phone buzzes with a text. From Jack. _I miss you already._

 

Well, alright then.

**Author's Note:**

> The second chapter/E-rated epilogue is in the works. Stay tuned!


End file.
